


my world if he’s not there

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: même la nuit la plus sombre prendra [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Asexual Enjolras, Bossuet is a walking disaster, Enjolras gets Passionate about the homeless, Enjolras is Salty, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Javert is too stubborn for his own good, Politics, Social Justice, amatonormativity, aromantic Enjolras, gratuitous dick jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 10:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11378802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: “Say,” Grantaire said conversationally, waving a hand in front of Combeferre's face to grab his attention, “do you have any idea as to where Enjolras is?Combeferre sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don't know, R. f you're so curious, why don't you ask Enjolras himself?"“He won't talk to me," Grantaire admitted.––In which there's pizza, politics, amatonormativity, and depression. Not necessarily in that order.––(A sequel toa world about to dawn, but can be read as a stand-alone.)





	my world if he’s not there

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank everyone who reviewed the first part. It was _massive_. You don't technically need it to read this one, but since I'm the author, I'm going to encourage you to do it anyway.
> 
> This part felt like pulling teeth, I swear.

Every Thursday for five years running, Enjolras followed an almost sacred tradition. He had never invited Combeferre with him; less because he was ashamed of it — quite the opposite — and more because it was a private moment for him to relax, to process the week's events. It was something private, something _unique_ , something he did alone.

(If 'alone' was defined as 'with a handful of strangers', that was.)

Since starting it, he had not missed a single day; not on his birthday; not on Christmas — which, in any case, was an asinine concept whose modern pressures had been made famous by capitalism and people who had too much money to their name; and not on New Year's. In fact, it was on those days especially that he saw the significance of his gesture — nay, duty! — as necessary. Who was Enjolras to decide that he, the privileged young man from the suburbs of Paris, was to receive lavish gifts, while the poor and the destitute did not even have enough to feed their children — children who had as much potential and as much right to happiness as Enjolras?

* * *

“Say,” Grantaire said conversationally, waving a hand in front of Combeferre's face to grab his attention, “do you have any idea as to where Enjolras is?”

Combeferre sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don't know, R. And this is the third week you've asked me. If you're so curious, why don't you ask Enjolras himself?”

“He won't talk to me,” Grantaire admitted.

Combeferre hummed softly. “Have you considered that he may not want to talk about it?” he suggested.

Grantaire huffed. “What could the great Enjolras possibly have to hide?” he mocked.

Combeferre grimaced. “It's probably nothing. In all probability, all Enjolras wants is to retain his secret. Not all of us are naturally self-destructive,” he added reproachfully.

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “You know what he's doing,” he accused the darker man.

Combeferre raised a hand to stall Grantaire. “I don't. I tried asking him a few years ago, but he wouldn't tell me either. But I do respect his privacy. If he wants to tell you, he will. Trust me on this one, R.”

Grantaire later considered Combeferre’s words. His friend did have a point in that Enjolras did deserve his one shred of privacy, especially considering that he gave his entire life to the betterment of this country and the world as a whole. Enjolras had earned his private moment – not that one should _earn_ privacy to begin with.

On the other hand, Grantaire had grown _curious_ , and he had never been good at resisting temptation, especially when it came to Enjolras.

* * *

Despite Combeferre’s words, Grantaire couldn’t find it in himself to drop the matter. That was why, six days later, he found himself following Enjolras out of his dorm on his mystery excursion.

Grantaire didn’t know what he had expected to happen, but what followed definitely hadn’t been it.

Enjolras went to a coffee shop. Not their customary coffee shop, either, but one at the other end of town – the poor end of town, Grantaire’s mind noted helpfully. Grantaire watched from a table in the back as Enjolras ordered food for – Grantaire did a quick approximation – more than _twenty fucking people_ , in very generous portions. His interested genuinely peaked – did Enjolras foresee a freaking apocalypse or what? – Grantaire watched as the blond handed the cashier a hundred-dollar bill. She took it, evidently used to Enjolras’ behaviour, and handed him his change.

While the cashier prepared Enjolras’ order, Grantaire’s friend waited by the tip jar. He studied it pensively for a moment before emptying all of the change he had been handed a minute earlier into the jar. At that, the cashier turned in Enjolras’ direction. She opened her mouth as if to object, but one look at Enjolras’ face – which Grantaire couldn’t see, seated as he was facing Enjolras’ back – put an end to any protests she might have had.

The food done, Enjolras grabbed the bag the cashier handed to him and left. Grantaire rose surreptitiously and approached the cashier. “Does he always come in like this?” he asked, pointing at where Enjolras has just left.

“Yeah,” the cashier confirmed, twirling one of her pink streaks. “Every Thursday. It’s like clockwork. He always tips,” she said before realizing she had said too much. She clammed up tighter than a clam with lockjaw.

Grantaire smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell him. He’s an old friend.”

The girl narrowed her eyes. “He seems more than that to you,” she remarked. “I don’t make a habit of stalking my old friends, yet here you are.”

Grantaire hesitated. “It’s complicated,” he deflected, before leaving the same way Enjolras had.

* * *

Enjolras took a new route through the city. There were always people waiting for him, regardless of which way he went. The slums of Paris — the city's underbelly, as it were — had never frightened him. As a child, his mother had urged him to stay away from the more dangerous parts of town, warning that “these people would rob you at first opportunity, cher Enjolras, you've got to accept that”. Enjolras had not believed that. His mother had simply never given the proletariat a chance.

 _When you're told that you're nothing but a base creature — not much higher up the chain than animals — at some point, you start to believe that, and you begin to reckon that_ _since you can't convince them to give you the benefit of the doubt, you might as well conform to their expectations and reap the benefits._

Enjolras’ parents were part of the problem; Enjolras was determined to be part of the solution.

Enjolras found the direct interaction with people much more fulfilling than an anonymously sent cheque to an abstract organization. This way, Enjolras was forced to confront the reality that many people's lives consisted of, and to value his own. Sending money via a middleman felt impersonal — as though he was shying away from these problems still so deeply rooted in their society almost two hundred years later.

His mother's reaction was another reason he had never told any of his friends: he feared that they might, for all their talk of elevating the poor, disapprove of his trips and try to dissuade Enjolras from them. Rationally, Enjolras knew that most of his friends were just as invested in the cause as he was, but still. The seed of doubt was there.

Surprisingly for his mother, who made it her personal mission to talk Enjolras out of his ‘foolish tradition’, Enjolras was never attacked. He gave away every penny and every sandwich he brought with him, and he reckoned that whatever he brought was theirs for the taking anyway.

Stopping at one of the intersections — or what passed for an intersection around here, at least — Enjolras looked around. He hadn't been here before, but it was as good a place as any.

He made quick work of distributing his purchases, hiding his embarrassment as he shook hands with some of the people. It was _wrong_ that some people had to be reduced to _this_ , to begging, simply to be able to survive to another day. This, more than anything, served as a reminder of why he was fighting for France and the equality of all of her citizen — so that people like these didn't have to choose between their dignity and feeding their families.

Bag empty, Enjolras shook the remaining hands, then stepped into a side alley, giving the people a semblance of privacy. He leaned against a wall, letting out a deep breath. These excursions always took a lot out of Enjolras, but he cherished that exhaustion, because the day the sight of starving people would stop affecting him—

Well. He didn't dwell on that.

Enjolras shook his head, then grabbed the empty bag and stuffed it into the satchel Grantaire had borrowed him a few weeks ago.

“It's a generous thing you're doing,” said a voice from the adjoining alley.

Enjolras froze. “Grantaire,” he said slowly, because this was a voice he'd been able to — and had, in fact — recognize in his dreams. “What are you doing here?”

“I was under the impression that streets are for public use,” Grantaire responded as he pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against.

“Grantaire–“ Enjolras began.

“Sorry,” Grantaire grinned, not sounding sorry at all. “Curiosity, is all.”

Enjolras eyes widened in realization. “You followed me,” he accused the brunet, anger mounting. Grantaire had _assured him_ , only weeks earlier, that he could be trusted. Clearly, that wasn’t the case. Who did Grantaire think he _was_ , poking his nose in other people’s business like he had any right to pass judgement?

Grantaire raised his hands defensively. “I do admit that I was curious where you went every Thursday like clockwork. At first, I thought it might be drugs or something similar—”

“I'm not you,” Enjolras retorted. “Give me a little more credit than that.

“No, I _know_ that,” Grantaire was still grinning like a fool. “I realize that. But this,” he gestured around them, “this is _amazing_ , Apollo! You're doing such a good thing, and without seeking recognition,” Grantaire shook his head. “You are incredible,” he said softly.

Grantaire reached out to touch Enjolras’ shoulder. The blond recoiled. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped.

Grantaire sighed, backing away. “I won’t,” he promised. “Not without your permission.”

“I don't _need_ recognition,” Enjolras went on bitterly. “These people do, however, need food. I'm doing what any person with a shred of sense would have done in my place.”

“And yet nobody else is doing it in your place,” Grantaire said astutely.

“That says more about the rest of the population than about me,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t think it does,” Grantaire countered. “I think it says a lot about _you_ , and about the inside of your heart; the content of your soul, so to speak.”

 “Wait,” Enjolras paused as something dawned on him. “You aren't going to stop me.”

“ _No_ _!_ ” Grantaire laughed, grasping Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras gave him a bewildered look. “Why would I stop you from helping people?”

“I just spent a hundred dollars on food and tips,” Enjolras said helplessly. When he had imagined his friends’ reaction upon finding out, he had never taken _praise_ into consideration.

Grantaire scoffed. “Enjolras, surely you know that, while I may be cynical at times—” Enjolras snorted at this. “—I am not cruel. I recognize the necessity of your gestures. Besides, it’s _your_ money to do with as you see fit. I can hardly tell you how to spend your money,” he paused. “Wait, is this what you were afraid of? That we’d tell you how to manage your money?” Enjolras didn’t answer. Grantaire’s expression softened. “ _Enjolras_.”

“It’s _my_ life, and if I choose to spend my money on the poor, that’s no one’s business but my own.” Enjolras had an expression Grantaire had long since named ‘fuck this, I have a revolution to run’.

“I know, and I’m not trying to stop you,” Grantaire said. “I was just worried about you. Look,” he said, “I’m not going to tell anyone about this if you don’t want me to – although I think you should: contrary to your beliefs, nobody’s going to try to persuade you to stop being _good_.”

Enjolras didn’t speak for a long moment. “I’ll think about it,” he said at length.

Fluent in Enjolras, Grantaire translated this into a polite ‘not a chance’, but ultimately, it was _Enjolras’_ choice. Grantaire put on a smile. “Now, since you’ve fed the poor, how about _you_ grab something to eat for a change? You look like a strong gust of wind could knock you down.”

* * *

 

Javert wasn’t eating again.

Jean felt bad for not having noticed it until after the finals. He could have excused himself, said that he had been busy with his tests, or that he wasn't Javert's babysitter, but these would only have been just that: excuses. The truth was that Jean had promised himself that he would take care of Javert — not because he owed it to the old policeman, though he could argue that he _did_ , in fact, owe him, but despite the fact that he _did not_ owe him. Javert, Jean had surmised, had never, in either of his lives, had any one person who took care of him pro bono. Everyone deserved someone who cared about them, and who better than the man who had, for all intents and purposes, accompanied Javert throughout his life and seen him at his lowest? Moreover, Gavroche had once mentioned to Jean that Javert ‘never shut up about him since he got his memories back and could Jean please just do something about it’. Cosette chimed in that ‘I’ve watched Jean pine after a spectre for most of my life so you’ve got _nothing_ on my life’.

Jean decided that he would broach this subject Javert's reluctance to eat at their usual meeting, because, while there was something to giving a person personal space, Jean valued not letting said person starve themselves more.

Jean and Javert liked to watch documentaries or period dramas. Somehow, all of their dates, even the ones where Jean planned out simple yet beautiful festivities, ended up with the two of them cuddled up on Jean’s couch, watching another episode of _Curious and Unusual Deaths_ or _Les Bleus_. Jean genuinely enjoys the scenery, while Javert focuses on what the documentaries got wrong. This was also why Jean vowed never to watch crime shows with Javert again – one episode of NCIS was enough to convince him that it was a Bad Idea.

Cosette once joked that it was their version of Netflix and chill – which was usually followed by Jean choking on whatever drink he was sipping, and Javert twitching like he did every time someone put in a sexual innuendo.

“Javert,” Jean began quietly once the episode started. In the background, Steve Harringer was explaining why a glider’s test from the Eiffel Tower wasn’t the best of ideas, no matter how appealing to photographers out there. Personally, Jean’s favourite was the one with the gigantic kite, because he could definitely sympathize with being punished for trying to do the right thing. “I need to talk to you.”

“What is it?” Javert asked carefully.

Jean decided to plunge head-first into this. “Why don’t you eat?” he asked plainly. “You never eat.”

Javert’s shoulders stiffened. “I do eat,” he protested.

“I’ve seen you eat maybe _once_ , and that was popcorn,” Jean objected. “It’s not good for you to starve yourself.”

Javert looked away. “I don’t _starve_ myself. I’m simply not hungry,” he said under his breath.

Jean hesitated. He ran his tongue over his lips, which had suddenly become too dry for comfort. “Have you considered–” he began.

“Considered what?” Javert snapped when Jean didn’t clarify.

Jean sighed. “ _Considered_ ,” he continued cautiously, “that you might be suffering from depression?”

If anything, Javert’s shoulders became marble. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Jean observed him meticulously. He hadn’t expected an immediate response, but this was worrying even by Javert’s standards.

“Depression?” Javert repeated eventually. “I have. I mean, I _know_ I’m depressed; it’s not news to me. I just…” he shrugged helplessly, “don’t care. I can’t do anything about it, and it isn’t precisely killing me, so why should I concern myself with it? It’s my natural state.”

“It’s _not_ your natural state,” Jean insisted. “It’s very far from your natural state, and you _should_ care about it because it is _hurting_ you,” he dragged a hand across his face. “I can’t– actually, I _can_ believe that you’d know something like this and still didn’t care. Javert, you _must_ be taking better care of yourself, and that includes combatting your depression.”

Javert’s lips curled up in a snarl. “What if I don’t want to?” he retorted.

“I cannot actually force you to take anti-depressants and go to therapy,” Jean told him, “but I genuinely believe it would be beneficial to you.”

“I’m _used_ to being like this. I don’t want to change.”

“Even if _this_ is not actually you, but an illness being expressed?” Jean asked rhetorically. “As David Hume once said, ‘Just because something is a certain way, doesn’t mean it should be that way.’”

Javert frowned. “That’s not how the quote went,” he pointed out.

“I’m paraphrasing, and _you_ are avoiding the subject,” Jean replied. “Why won’t you let me help you? Why won’t you let you help _yourself_? Is it some sort of misguided notion that you don’t deserve help? Because I can tell you that that is simply _not true_ ,” he crossed his arms.

Javert’s eyes had a faraway look, as if they were looking at things beyond the sight of mortals. “I just don’t see why anyone would have to occupy themselves righting something that isn’t that much of a problem anyway,” he spoke at length.

Jean stared. “’Isn’t that much of a problem’?” he echoed. “Javert, you aren’t _eating_! In case you’ve miraculously missed Humanity 101, not ingesting nutritional substance leads to a long and painful death.”

“Actually, from what I’ve heard, it would be quite painless, apart from the initial hunger,” Javert countered.

“Javert, you’re not helping,” Jean groaned. He sighed. “Please, will you let me help you? If only for my own peace of mind.”

Javert was still. “I suppose I can’t exactly stop you,” he muttered.

Cupping Javert’s chin with his both hands, Jean pressed his lips to Javert’s forehead, before moving his hands to massage his temples. Javert gradually relaxed under Jean's touch, and Jean couldn't help but marvel at how shy and withdrawn man was giving him his trust so readily. He was intimately aware of how hard Javert found it to trust people. “I wish you'd cooperate with me on this one,” he murmured softly. “I truly don't mean you harm.” His fingers found Javert’s hair tie, and untied it with a few nimble twists. Javert’s hair fell onto his shoulders, giving Javert a more youthful look. Jean stifled a grin.

Javert frowned at his unruly hair, before looking up at Jean. “I know you don't,” he told him. “I simply don't see why anyone need concern themselves with—”

“Your well-being?” Jean finished with dismay. “You are being excessively humble, mon ami.” Jean cupped Javert’s neck in his palms and leaned up to kiss him. “You need to realize that I am grateful for you every day.”

“Why?” Javert was puzzled.

This got a laugh out of Jean. “Why?” he repeated. “Because you are a good person. Because my life is brighter with you in it. Because I love you.”

“You–“ Javert’s brain ground to a halt. “You _love_ me?”

Jean frowned at Javert. “Don’t sound so incredulous, mon inspecteur. Of course I love you.”

“Why?”

“I believe that I’ve just listed a few of the reasons,” Jean grinned.

“But–“ Javert began.

Jean found that the easiest way to silence Javert was to kiss him — so he did. Javert melted against him, pressing his lips to Jean's almost with an urgency.

“Javert,” Jean said again. “Take care of yourself. When God gives you a second chance, don't waste it.”

Javert exhaled. He attempted a smile. “I suppose it would be rude to waste your efforts,” he did softly. “You _did_ save my life, after all, Monsieur le Maire.” Javert's voice was as affectionate as Javert ever permitted himself.

Jean rolled his eyes. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

“Why do you insist on calling me inspector?” Javert countered.

“Point taken,” Jean conceded. He absentmindedly ran a hand through Javert's hair, resulting in a wince from Javert. “Sorry,” Jean whispered.

“I'm fine,” Javert said habitually. Under Jean’s disapproving eyes, he amended, “Just… don’t pull my hair. I’m particular about it.”

“I never took you for a hair person,” Jean grinned.

Javert scrunched up his nose. “I’m not a _hair person_ ,” he refuted.

“Call it what you like,” Jean said mischievously. He ran his fingers through Javert’s hair again, this time taking more care not to get them tangled up. “May I braid your hair?” he asked suddenly.

Javert snorted. “I’ll never understand you,” he said, a note of wonder in his voice.

Jean didn’t know how to reply to that statement. He took his friend’s statement as permission, knowing that Javert would have made it explicitly clear, had he wanted his hair left alone. Jean focused his brown eyes on Javert’s face, which was paler than usual. His friend didn’t have the energy to argue with Jean anymore – almost as if the fight had left him, rendering him exhausted.

Javert closed his eyes with a quiet gasp when Jean began to brush his hair, tidying it before he could begin braiding. Like this, he seemed so vulnerable to Jean. It was odd, seeing him this way. Javert was a person wholly adverse to showing any kind of weakness.

Jean didn't know how to describe his relationship with Javert. Degrading them to mere friends didn't do their relationship justice, but calling them lovers wasn't quite an accurate term either. Jean wasn't altogether opposed to a romantic relationship with Javert, but he didn't know precisely what he wasn’t opposed to — how far his comfort zone stretched. More importantly, he didn't know how far _Javert's_ comfort zone stretched.

They were equals, Jean supposed was the most accurate description. Their strengths complemented each other. Javert's relentless brain, ever pursuing, balanced out by Jean's generous heart, ever forgiving.

* * *

 

Cosette hadn't had time to speak with Jean alone for quite some time after they joined up with Les Amis — first, there was Marius, then there was Javert, and then Jean has taken to disappearing off with Gavroche for reasons unknown. It wasn't until the end of the semester, when Jean had relocated from the library back to their dorm room, that Cosette finally got a chance to talk to her best friend again. She knocked softly on the door frame. “Jean,” she spoke,” do you have a second?”

Jean put away the pen he has been doodling a few caricatures in his ethics notebook. He smiled. “For you, always.”

 _Except for when you're busy with Javert, that is,_ Cosette thought, not unkindly.

Cosette sat down in the vacant chair next to Jean. “I need to ask you something,” she began tentatively.

Jean frowned. “The last time I heard that from you, you are endeavouring to get me to talk about my past,” he remarked.

“You mean about the fact that you went to jail for nineteen years for stealing a loaf of bread,” Cosette countered.

Jean sighed. “And I tell you that I was only convicted for five, but the sentence was lengthened to nineteen because of my numerous escape attempts.”

“You should just have taken the five,” Cosette snorted, rolling her eyes for extra emphasis.

Jean grimaced. “Hindsight is perfect, isn't it?”

“Even so,” Cosette went on, “ _five_ _years_ is far too cruel a punishment for such an insignificant crime.”

“Javert would beg to disagree,” Jean remarked.

“Javert is a great person, but I don't trust his judgement of fairness.”

“Besides,” Jean said, “you weren't there during that time, nor do you remember true poverty. In Faverolles, we were all hungry to some extent. It was a truly bad winter, which makes my action the more despicable. I attempted to steal what might have been another person's only meal that day.”

“Didn't you do that in order to feed your own family?”

“Yes, but—” Jean struggled for words, “—that doesn't excuse my action.”

“No, but it does _justify_ it. Don't be so hard on yourself,” Cosette leaned across the table up squeeze Jean's hand.

Jean sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I doubt that we are going to agree on this, but I don't think that's what you came here to discuss. What's on your mind?”

“Right!” Cosette exclaimed. She leaned back. “It's about the barricades, actually.”

Jean blinked. “What about them?” he asked in confusion.

“You didn’t tell me you went to the barricades,” Cosette said bluntly.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Jean told her plainly. “I read the letter for you, and realized I didn't really have any other choice.”

Cosette rolled her eyes. “That's the single worst choice you could have made,” she commented. “Which brings me to my next point: don’t open my mail ever again.”

“Well,” Jean smirked, “you got your Marius in the end, did you not?”

“It was almost at the cost of _your_ life, and that is not an exchange I would ever be willing to accept. Jean,” Cosette paused, “Marius may be my husband, but you are my best friend and have been a father figure for as long as I can remember. Just because I gain a new person in my life doesn't mean that I have to discard another. _That's not how it works._ Moreover, picture, for just a moment, that you had been unsuccessful — that you had never returned, having been killed at the barricades. I would not have known what had happened. Had you thought of _that?”_ she blurted out almost fervently.

The lack of a reply spoke for itself.

“I promise,” Jean spoke at last, a small smile playing on his lips, “to next time inform you prior to taking part in any movement designed to overthrow the current defective administrative system.”

Cosette threw up her hands in exasperation. “Had it been anyone else, I would have thought that a joke. As it is, however, I _know_ Enjolras.”

“I would never jest about revolution,” Jean added in a good imitation of Enjolras’ voice. Reverting to his own voice, he added, “In the interest of accuracy, let me just point out that I'm not actually a part their little activist group.”

“I get the feeling that they will drag you into it anyway,” Cosette said with amusement.

“Just to recap: don't open my letters again, and warn me _before_ the next big revolutionary event. After all, someone has to keep you all in check.”

“And that someone is you?” Jean grinned.

Cosette shrugged. “Has to be me. I mean, have you _met_ everyone else?”

Jean adopted a thoughtful expression. “Javert might be inclined to—”

“Javert would just as soon lend a helping hand with the arrests,” Cosette deadpanned. “Either that, or you’d puppy-eyes him into submission. Either way, he isn't reliable.”

Jean thought about arguing that Javert was his own independent person, _thank you very much_ , but he knew a lost fight when he saw one. Not even Cosette could be swayed on this.

“Grantaire?” he suggested instead.

Cosette smiled gently. “Grantaire may pretend that he has mastered his crush on Enjolras, but I've seen the look on his face. He'd die for Enjolras a thousand times over — not that Enjolras would ask that of him. So yeah — it's basically me, and _maybe_ Bahorel. Then again, Bahorel makes a point of driving motorbikes into the library parking lot at full speed, so he's not the most well-suited person for damage control.”

“You make all of us sound like a group of toddlers that needs constant supervision.”

“Well,” Cosette shot back playfully, “I'm hardly _wrong._ ”

* * *

 

The beginning of a meeting was usually signaled by Enjolras standing up and putting on what Jehan had once coined his ‘this is serious business and _Éponine put away that pen rubber band before you shoot out one of Bossuet’s teeth again_ ’ face. Jehan thought it was adorable; Musichetta thought he looked like an emotionally-constipated duck.

“Is everyone here?” Enjolras asked, looking around and doing a quick headcount. His eyes stopped on one of the chair, glaringly empty.

“Bahorel isn’t here,” Combeferre said, putting an end to whatever tirade Enjolras was about to launch himself into.

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. “And why would that be?” he drawled.

“Because you know that thing he does where he leaves his studying until the very last minute, and then arrives at the campus library parking lot on a motorbike, and runs into the library at full speed? Yeah, _well._ The cops caught him speeding, so someone needs to bail him out.”

Enjolras nodded. He reached into his bag and grabbed his wallet. “Here, take my card,” he said, handing it to Combeferre. “It's about time it was put to good use anyway.”

Combeferre nodded curtly before leaving.

Enjolras again looked around. His eyes zeroed in on another empty chair. “Where’s Bossuet, then? Also in jail?” he taunted. “Do I need to tell Ferre to double the bail?”

“Funny that you ask that, actually,” Courfeyrac couldn’t quite stifle a smirk. “Bahorel called him from the station and asked him to pick up his bike, but Bossuet managed to damage the tires to the extent that they were beyond repair. Long story short, he fell off Bahorel’s bike and broke his right wrist. Had to go to the hospital and get a cast, except the one they originally gave him caused an allergic reaction.”

Enjolras frowned. “And how is he to return?”

Courfeyrac made the universal gesture for phone calls. “He promised he wouldn't try to get home on his own.”

“Good call,” Joly said approvingly. “Who knows what can happen to him between the Saint-Louis and La Rue Gauche.”

Jehan shuddered visibly.

“In the meantime,” Enjolras said, shuffling his papers into order, “let’s begin.”

For the next half an hour, the meeting went smoothly (if one discounted Grantaire’s intermittent interruptions, which had, by now, become the norm). Courfeyrac’s words were suddenly cut off by an insistent beeping. Everyone looked around, trying to locate the sound. Enjolras groaned as he recognized his own ringtone. Grantaire read the display over Enjolras’ shoulder. “You should take it,” he said. To the others, he stage-whispered, “Combeferre.”

Courfeyrac quirked an eyebrow at the explanation. “Say hi to Bahorel,” he mouthed, to which Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“Yes?” Enjolras said to Combeferre. He listened. “Good. Oh. Okay. Yes, that would be… yes. I’ll ask,” he pulled his phone from his ear. “Who wants pizza?” he asked, to a chorus of ‘yes’. “What kind?”

“Pepperoni,” Courfeyrac said immediately.

“Make that two,” Joly added.

“Something spicy,” Feuilly scrunched his nose. “Hothead. With lots of jalapeños.”

Enjolras blinked, but relayed the order dutifully.

“Whatever contains garlic,” Musichetta declared.

Joly wrinkled his nose. “I’m not kissing you,” he declared.

“Mushrooms for two,” Cosette chimed in.

“Banana,” Jehan said. “They have free reins, as long as they put lots of banana on mine.”

“Vegetarian,” Grantaire said resolutely. “Especially with pineapples.”

Enjolras paused to stare at Grantaire. “Heathen,” he hissed quietly. “Pineapple has no place on a pizza. Where’s your dignity?” he said in exasperation.

“Clearly I don’t have any, otherwise I wouldn’t be friends with you,” Grantaire parried. “And what are you having, _darling_?”

“SPQF,” Enjolras said haughtily, his voice indicating that any other choice was a crime against the local cuisine. “Senatus Populusque Français.”

“The French Senate and People,” Joly, one of their two resident Latin translators, said fluently.

Grantaire leaned back, a smirk forming on his lips. “Oh, I see. You’re one of these people who have Opinions on pizza,” he said, the capital letter almost audible. He shook his head. “Honestly, could you get any _more_ pretentious?”

“Peanuts, not that anyone cares,” Éponine said from the other side of the table. “Everyone seems to be allergic to me anyway.”

“Sea food,” Gavroche finished.

Enjolras acknowledged their orders, repeating them to Combeferre. “Grantaire’s a heathen,” he added.

He could practically hear Combeferre smother a smirk. “Enjolras? Is there something between you and Grantaire?”

“Right now?” Enjolras retorted. “Profound disgust and a chair. How long before you’ll be back?”

Combeferre hummed. “Roughly a quarter of an hour. Try not to dismember anyone,” he added before disconnecting.

Enjolras frowned at his phone before pocketing it with a sigh. Most of the time, he understood Combeferre very well, but there were moments such as these when he honestly couldn’t comprehend what went on in his brain. Then again, this was the same person who used to correct the dictionary for no other reason than personal amusement.

Meanwhile, Grantaire had moved on, launching into one of his trademark tirades. This time, it concerned one of his all time favourite subjects: Enjolras himself.

“I love you so much that it terrifies me sometimes when I allow myself to think about it. The intensity of my own feelings scare me because I don’t seem to be able to find an end to them. When I so much as think about you, I’m overwhelmed by the inexplicable fondness and love and adoration I feel towards you. Your mere presence can bring me to tears.”

“Are you _drunk_?” Enjolras frowned. Grantaire certainly _sounded_ drunk.

“No,” Grantaire said, offended. “I told you: I don’t drink.”

“Good.”

“I may have accidentally take ecstasy though.”

Enjolras stilled, teeth grinding. “I thought you quit,” he managed angrily.

“I asid _accidentally_.”

“Grantaire–“ Enjolras let out a long sigh. “You’re such a mess.” He looked around. “Can someone take care of Grantaire?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “He’s _your_ Not Boyfriend, mon cœur. Your problem, not mine.”

Jehan scoffed. “You are a true friend, Courf,” he said sarcastically.

Courfeyrac made a mocking bow. “I do try. After all, someone has to distract our glorious leader from being too hard on his one true critic, n’est-ce pas?”

A commotion by the for drew everyone's attention. Bahorel came tumbling in, holding almost a dozen boxes of pizza, just avoiding tripping over the protruding step inside the café. He straightened himself out, dusting his shirt from invisible particles, before giving his assembled friends a smirk.

“What’d I miss?” he asked nonchalantly.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “That stopped being funny the third time you said it. Put down the pizza before you drop it,” he ordered. Looking at the waitress, he beckoned her with a nod. “Could I have another coffee?”

The waitress nodded, dashing off to the kitchen.

Bahorel put down the boxes obligingly on the table as indicated, before settling gracelessly in a chair.

The door had barely closed when it was opened again, this time by Combeferre, who held it up for Bossuet. Bossuet walked in, but seemed to have forgotten the trick stair. His foot caught on it and he stumbled. Combeferre grabbed his arm, tucking him against his side to keep him from falling and further hurting himself.

Courfeyrac wolf-whistled. “Should I be jealous?” he asked with a wink.

Bossuet scoffed. “Don't be childish. Thank you,” he added to Combeferre.

Combeferre smiled genially. “Not a problem.” He let go of Bossuet’s arm and closed the door.

“Come on, sit down,” Joly patted the seat next to him.

Bossuet did so, absentmindedly pressing a light kiss to Joly’s nose.

The waitress came out with Enjolras’ coffee; he thanked her with a nod.

Feuilly rubbed his hands. “I'm not sure about you, but I'm _starving_ ,” he told the rest.

Combeferre leaned forward. “Let's see if I remember it correctly,” he said. “This one should be Grantaire's — not a word, Enjolras,” he warned when Enjolras opened his mouth.

Grantaire grinned as he accepted the box. “That's a neat trick, Ferre. Mind teaching it to me?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Bite me.”

“Methinks _biting_ isn't the only thing Grantaire would be interested in doing to you with his mouth,” Courfeyrac drawled, wagging his eyebrows.

Combeferre elbowed him. “Courf!” he hissed, reprimanding.

Enjolras blinked in bewilderment. “Such as?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, nothing,” Courfeyrac smirked. “I'm sure you'll _come_ to the realization on your own.”

Feuilly snorted. “I don't think he'll get it. I think you need to _squeeze_ it into him.”

“R would kill me,” Courfeyrac deadpanned.

Enjolras glanced between his friends. “Am I missing something?”

“Not at all,” Bahorel assured him in a voice that was the furthest thing from reassuring. “The topic isn't very _hard_ at all.”

“My friends,” Jehan said with a mischievous smile, “you're laying it on a little _thick_ here. Even poor Jolllly is creeped out.”

“I am _not_ ,” Joly protested, though his words were belied by an uncomfortable on his face.

“Sweetie, let me _give you a hand_ with that,” Musichetta also joined in. “I'm renowned for understanding the subtleties of small talk.”

“Let the guy _handle himself_ ,” Feuilly advised. “He seems to be _on top of things_.”

Musichetta considered Joly. “Yes, he does seem to know the _in-and-outs_ of biting.”

“Enjolras’ _grasp_ , on the other hand, isn’t as _firm_ ,” Courfeyrac smirked. Combeferre rolled his eyes longsufferingly. “He can’t seem to _wrap his hands_ around the matter.”

Musichetta faked a gasp. “Our leader, anything but the image of an _erect_ man? I did not see that _coming_.”

“I suggest that, when the opportunity _arises_ , we _penetrate_ the subject with him,” Bahorel added. “His education is clearly lacking in some _regions_.”

Enjolras shook his head in irritation. “I don’t understand what kind of a conversation this is, or what I am missing, but I most certainly do not need education in biting.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Grantaire grinned. “An anatomy lesson could prove useful. I’d even volunteer to teach you.”

Enjolras’ eyes widened. “Are you talking about what I _think_ you're talking about?” he demanded.

Courfeyrac smirked. “And with that, we've reached the _climax_ of this conversation.”

“ _Courfeyrac_!” Enjolras said, scandalized.

Jehan patted Enjolras’ hand. “Outrage looks good on you.”

“Everything looks good on Apollo,” Grantaire told Jehan.

Enjolras bit his lip, uncomfortable with the attention. While he tolerated — even, at times, treasured — the attention of others, this was the kind that made him mildly nauseous. He took a deep breath to calm his ragged breathing, a heavy weight settling in his stomach — _churning_ , as though his stomach was trying to crush the food that wasn't there, all the while pushing air up his throat in a mockery of vomiting. This— No. This wasn't bad. They didn't mean anything by it; they were simply joking.

Combeferre put a comforting hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, anchoring him in the moment. Enjolras shot him a grateful smile before standing up. “If anyone eats my pizza, there’ll be hell to pay,” he warned.

“At the end of the day,” Courfeyrac added cheerfully.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. He took Grantaire aside, intending to straighten a few things with him, since there was clearly a misunderstanding between them.

Taking advantage of the situation, Courfeyrac wasted no time in pouring two teaspoons of salt to his coffee. He then tasted the coffee, wincing at the taste. “Wonder if he’ll notice,” he pondered.

Jehan shook his head. “He’s too salty to notice anything short of an entire shaker.”

Bossuet eyed the salt shaker in front of him speculatively. He tried to pour the entire shaker into his coffee, but succeeded only in getting salt all over the table. Feuilly sighed and stood up surreptitiously, fetching another shaker from an adjoining table while Bahorel and Joly cleaned up. “No, Bossuet you’re not touching that broom,” Joly told him, “what if it catches on fire, _huh_?”

Taking the shaker from Feuilly, Cosette poured the salt from the shaker into Enjolras’ coffee. Éponine raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were into pranks,” she murmured.

Cosette shrugged with a brazen grin. “I’m interesting like that,” she said coyly.

“I’d say,” Éponine replied in the same way before remembering Marius’ presence at Cosette’s side. She didn’t look at him as she clammed up, and so missed the speculative look he sent her way.

Enjolras and Grantaire’s whispers didn’t quite carry to the table, which led to Feuilly being stuck trying to read their lips – a talent he blatantly used whenever he wanted to listen in to a private conversation. After a while, he shook his head. “I can’t read their full lips,” he admitted.

Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed. “Enjolras doesn’t seem to want to be overheard,” he stated.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Éponine muttered.

Courfeyrac stuck out his tongue at her. “Fuck off, Watson.”

Grantaire suddenly shook his head violently. Enjolras rolled his eyes, a movement which couldn’t convey more irritation if he wrote it on a paper. Enjolras stomped back to the table, followed closely by Grantaire. He grabbed his coffee, and, without hesitation, inhaled the whole drink in one go. Everyone around the table held their breaths, waiting for Enjolras’ reaction. To their great disappointment, Enjolras put down the mug without a comment, not seeming to have noticed the difference in taste at all. Combeferre pitied his best friend’s taste buds, if he couldn’t even tell that his coffee contained the recommended weekly dose of crystallized natrium chloride.

“Definitely salty,” Musichetta whispered into Courfeyrac’s ear.

Enjolras saw everyone’s poleaxed stares, and tilted his head pointedly. “Is there a problem?” he asked sharply.

“Not at all,” Éponine hurried to assure him, face a little paler than usual.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, doubtful as to the veracity of her words, but, casting another look Grantaire’s way, didn’t follow up on it.

“Let’s eat the pizza before it gets cold,” he suggested. “In the meantime, we need to talk about that homeless shelter they’re considering shutting down. We need to stage a protest. They can’t do that – hundreds of people’s safety depends on that shelter.”

“We can also talk to Madame Aurillac,” Jehan suggested.

Feuilly snorted. “Both she and Balladur are useless,” he advised. “Our best shot would be Madame Billard, who’s an independent; improving the lives of the homeless are one of her election promises.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “She’s too new to have the kind of influence we’re looking for. We need someone with a wider-ranging reach.”

Gavroche crossed his arms. “Serge Blisko,” he proposed, pushing up his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “A socialist who has been in the Assembly for close to two decades, and who shares Billard’s ideas.”

Enjolras considered this. “I will speak with Blisko,” he finally decided. “Courfeyrac, Jehan, you talk to Billard. I trust you will be able to convince her of the necessity for this shelter. Combeferre,” he turned to his friend, “can you find out if there’s going to be a protest at the Saint-Gervais this month? If not, that’s where we’re going to protest. It’s close to the shelter, and central enough that it will catch people’s attention.”

“This isn’t saying that it will _retain_ their attention,” Grantaire muttered.

“Actually,” Marius cut in unexpectedly, and Enjolras fell silent, turning to listen to one of their more terse friends – at least when it came to social problems. Give him love as the topic, and Marius could elaborate on it for close to forty minutes. “Actually,” Marius repeated himself, “Fantine has a friend who works at one of the protest centres. She might know more.”

Enjolras started. “That’s a good idea,” he said, not quite able to keep the surprise from his voice.

Marius huffed. “You don’t need to sound so surprised,” he said indignantly.

“What Enjolras meant,” Combeferre said placatingly before Enjolras could say anything, “is that your ideas tend to be quite… unique.”

“Dumb, you mean,” Cosette said, not bothering to stifle a smirk when Marius shot her a betrayed look. “Come on,” she protested. “Don't give me that look when you know fully well what you did with my father's handkerchief.”

“I thought it was yours!” Marius objected.

“That doesn’t help your case,” Éponine said breezily.

Marius sniffed. “Why are you ganging up on me?”

“Because, ma moitié,” Cosette smiled, “someone has to keep you in line.”

“Besides,” Éponine added mischievously, “you make it so easy.”

“Now,” Courfeyrac cut them off, “stop teasing Marius.”

“Thank you,” Marius said gratefully.

“After all,” Courfeyrac went on, “that’s _my_ job. If anyone has the privilege of teasing Marius away, ‘tis me.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to the laptop in front of him, where he had begun drafting a speech for the protest.

“If I may remind you,” Combeferre injected, “the last time you decided to tease Marius about liking books more than women, you scared him away.”

“Enjolras had a part in that as well!” Courfeyrac protested.

“Well,” Grantaire grimaced. “Enjolras always has to be that little more Extra, doesn’t he,” he said, the letter almost audibly capital.

“Don’t try to emulate Enjolras,” Joly spoke with surprising conviction. “Lord knows what would happen if the world had more than one Enjolras.”

“Grantaire’s wet dream,” Bahorel said snidely. His breath was knocked out of him when Feuilly snapped an elbow into his stomach.

“Standards, Rel,” he hissed into his ear.

Bahorel blanched. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Grantaire’s lips twisted into a smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

Enjolras finally looked up. “Is it too much to ask for us to finish our discussion about the upcoming protest?”

“Please do,” Marius said quickly.

Enjolras cleared his throat. “As I was saying before, we need to concentrate our forces…”

* * *

 

Enjolras was staying on-campus for Christmas, because _of course he was._ He had tried to excuse himself by saying that he hadn’t spent as much time exploring the town as he would have liked, and anyway, he wanted to give his parents some space, but Combeferre saw through that in a heartbeat. He knew that Enjolras wanted to have space to work on some of those projects that had been pushed aside during the pandemonium that was the autumn semester, and that he wouldn’t have gotten that quiet space at his parents’ house. Combeferre had attended enough of the Rousseau family Christmas celebrations to have gotten a general idea of what chaos that entailed – and so, it seemed, had Enjolras.

Grantaire’s aunt was away for Christmas in New Zealand, visiting her cousin’s family whom Grantaire had alienated a few years back (or so Combeferre was told, at any rate; this, he found easier to believe than Enjolras’ fairytale about ‘exploring the heart of Paris in search of new and exciting experiences’), which meant that Grantaire was likewise staying in Paris for Christmas.

Through a series of coincidences too bizarre for Combeferre to contemplate, Courfeyrac, Gavroche, Javert, and Jean were staying as well. Combeferre had, for his part, taken one look at his two best friends, and decided that someone needed to watch them, for their own sake as well as everyone else’s.

They celebrated Christmas at Enjolras and Combeferre’s, their apartment being the biggest. Spock was over the moon with having so much attention focused on him. Courfeyrac was in charge of the food since nobody trusted him with alcohol; that task was relegated to Gavroche instead. Grantaire was, by default, assigned the hardest task – keeping Enjolras occupied with something besides work while Jean and Javert decorated the apartment.

“Let’s do to that vegetarian place, shall we?” Grantaire suggested. “You need to eat anyway, or you’re going to collapse.” At Enjolras’ skeptical look, he added, “Think of it as your Christmas gift to me.”

Enjolras sighed. “As long as it’s not _Le baron tres délicioux_ ,” he warned.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know – the title is not only a ‘disgusting remains of the bourgeoisie’ but also a ‘physical representation of the ingrained pariarchy’,” he said, using air quotes to emphasize his point. “No,” he smiled fondly, “I had another place in mind.”

Enjolras smiled, sending the same look right back.

The place Grantaire took Enjolras to was a quaint place that Enjolras would not have found on his own. It was hidden in a side alley, squeezed in between a toy shop and an electronics hardware service; made to resemble an Italian place, with its fashionable and polite staff, it had a very nice atmosphere – plus, as Grantaire had already said, their vegetarian dishes were mouth-watering.

“After all, monsieur, this is France,” Grantaire quoted, humming the words. “And the dinner here is never second-best. Almost worth dying for,” he grinned, biting into his chestnut-roasted pumpkin.

Enjolras frowned. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. Nobody needs to die because of food.”

“You mean _I_ don’t need to die because of food,” Grantaire said astutely. “You still would.”

“Nobody else needs to die because of my beliefs,” Enjolras corrected himself. He looked down at the food in front of him. “That’s something I’ve learned, at least.”

Grantaire reached over and grasped Enjolras’ hand, squeezing it. “ _No one_ will die here, period. You included.”

“You can’t promise that, R,” Enjolras growled.

“I can,” Grantaire smirked. “Watch me.”

“Grantaire–“

“Apollo,” Grantaire drawled, “for once in your life, give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“I already am,” Enjolras said plainly.

“You look really cute,” the waiter said, beaming at them.

Enjolras tensed up. Grantaire closed his eyes. This had been going _so well_. It just figured that someone had to ruin it.

“I’m not– We’re not–“ Grantaire tried to explain.

“He is not my boyfriend,” Enjolras said coldly. Grantaire listened to his voice, trying to extrapolate something more, but Enjolras’ face was oddly impenetrable.

The waiter stilled. “Ah,” he said, his face blank. “That’s– I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. I simply thought that– Given that you were holding hands and all, I just–“

“Not every relationship has to be romantic,” Enjolras snapped. “There’s this thing called platonic relationships that society as a whole seems to be forgetting. It's frustrating when people assume without asking, and it almost makes you feel like society as a whole tries to degrade your relationship for not fitting into the ‘normal’ box,” he went on, raising the volume of his voice as he did so. “I should be fully permitted to hold my friend’s hand without people immediately making assumptions about us.”

“Take a deep breath, Apollo,” Grantaire cautioned, moving his other hand atop Enjolras’ forearm. “No offense meant, right?” he addressed the now-nervous waiter.

“Right,” the waiter confirmed immediately. “I simply–“

“Made assumptions,” Enjolras finished for him.

“Yes– no,” the waiter corrected himself. He cleared his throat. “Monsieurs, that is, I wanted to ask you whether there is something else you desired?”

“The abolishment of amatonormativity,” Enjolras spoke.

“Nothing,” Grantaire said quickly, glancing quickly at Enjolras. “Everything’s fine,” he said in a voice that made it clear that the waiter’s presence was no longer wanted.

The waiter cast another look between the two of them before bowing slightly and making his retreat, presumably to calm down.

Grantaire studied Enjolras’ face. There was still no emotion on display, but it was now a very visible indifference – almost tangible. “Apollo, are you okay?”

“It does not matter,” Enjolras said with remarkable stiffness.

“Yes, it _does_ ,” Grantaire countered sharply. “Of course it matters.”

“You don’t know me well enough to determine that.”

“Even a broken clock is right two times a day,” Grantiare paused. “This isn’t one of those times.”

Enjolras snorted, then tried to pass it off as a cough. “If this is one of your moments of trying to show off–“

Grantaire raised his hands. “I swear on my life that it’s not. I’m just trying to take care of you. You take care of us, but neglect your own health. Let me return the favour. Answer me: are you okay?”

Enjolras sighed. He put his head in his hands, and rubbed his temples. “I guess?” he replied eventually. “I realize that it’s not a normal reaction, and usually, I would’ve had a little more patience, but school has been tearing at me, and then these articles I’ve been writing, and organizing these protests – and I can’t just _stop doing that_ because those are people’s lives, actual people’s lives and dreams, that depend on those protests, and raising awareness for that is one of our crucial tasks and I can’t just stop doing–“

“Apollo, mon ami,” Grantaire reached forward, as if to cover Enjolras’ hands with his own, then stopped mid-motion, letting his hands fall down to the table between them. “You are amazing, and I have no doubt that you _will_ help all these people, but you’re no good to them dead on your feet. Help yourself before you help others.”

Enjolras glowered at Grantaire. “And you?” he shot back. “Are you taking care of yourself? Are you taking your meds?”

“That’s not relev–“

“Yes, it is. It is for me. You told me about them for a reason,” he reminded.

Grantaire scoffed. “I swear, if this turns out to be another lecture on mixing drugs and medicine–“

“It’s not,” Enjolras cut him off curtly. “I just don’t want you to endanger your life in vain.”

“I’m not, I promise,” Grantaire assured him.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Enjolras replied shrewdly. “Am I to take that as a ‘no’?”

Grantaire bit his lip. There was assent in the man’s silence. Enjolras sighed, clenching his fist to redirect his anger. “R. You promised.”

“I don’t like to take anything that affects my thinking.”

“Except heroin,” Enjolras retorted.

“Don’t start again,” Grantaire warned. “Even the heroin, I take in small amounts. I don’t get high – I only take enough to feel numb.”

Enjolras processed the information. He took a calming breath. “Why don’t you like to take drugs, if I may ask?” he asked civilly.

Grantaire scowled. “I don’t usually talk about my past,” he began, “but I don’t think you’re going to let this one go. When I was twelve, my mother got drunk one evening – and I mean drunk as in the ‘got alcohol poisoning’ kind of drunk. Putting this in the simplest way possible, she murdered my father with a kitchen knife. She then chased me around our apartment. I managed to lock myself in the bathroom and climb out of the window. I broke my leg. I ran to my neighbours and told them what happened. I’ve been living with my aunt and uncle ever since,” Grantaire retold in simple sentences, ignoring Enjolras’ horrified face. He took a sip of his drink. “That’s why I hate mind-altering substances, and let’s not kid ourselves: my anti-depressants _are_ altering the way I view reality, no matter what fancy name the therapists are using nowadays.”

They relapsed into an uncomfortable silence; Enjolras, for once, did not know what to say.

“Well,” Grantaire said into the silence, “how's the food?”

Enjolras tilted his head, considering the question. “It's very good,” he admitted. “About your past—”

“Don't tell anyone,” Grantaire practically begged.

Enjolras stared. “Of course I'm not going to tell anyone without your permission. That would be an inexcusable breach of your trust.”

“That's… good,” Grantaire replied at length.

Enjolras shook his head. “What I wanted to say was that I would be willing to keep you in check,” he offered awkwardly.

“I appreciate the offer, but I don't think—”

“With all due respect,” Enjolras interrupted him somewhat harsher than intended, “I don't trust you with your health.”

“My health is my own,” Grantaire said, voice final.

“Funny — you didn't say that when the issue in question was _my_ health,” Enjolras spoke louder with every word.

“It was different,” Grantaire argued. “You don’t take care of yourself.”

“I don’t take care of physical health, you mean. How is your mental health any less important than my physical health?” Enjolras shot back. “R, this is what I literally died for – equality for all. Nobody’s above any other person. Your health is just as important as mine is.”

Grantaire thought through Enjolras’ words for a moment. “You promise that you’ll be there?” he eventually asked.

Enjolras nodded. “Always.”

Grantaire reached for his hand again, squeezing it gently. “I’ll try.”

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think about this one? It's quite a bit shorter than the first one, but I just need to get it over and done with because it's a Mess and I want to restart my brain, crazy as that sounds.
> 
> Good? Bad? Interesting? Mind-numbingly boring?


End file.
